Drunken Tale
by CaskettFanGirl
Summary: John goes to the pub, and gets drunk! He needs Sherlock to come and save him, leading to Johnlock fluff! Started as an RP between my friend and me. Will remain merely fluff and K plus for the whole story.
1. The Saviour

**A/N Okay, so this is my first fic I'm actually posting here. *nervous* Obviously, I love Sherlock which is why it's my first. :3 :D I am American, so please excuse any American words, phrases, slang, or ways in here. And foreign people, if you could point them out and perhaps tell me the foreign equivalent, that would actually be lovely, and very much appreciated. :)**

**Thanks to my wonderful MissTomorrow for the title, but YOU STILL NEED TO ACTUALLY WATCH SHERLOCK! *glares***

**And thanks to CowMow for encouraging me to actually post something! :D**

**So. Yeah, John got drunk, and needs Sherlock to come and save him! Johnlock fluff, probably won't get any more severe than said fluff. **

**PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE Read and Review! Constructive criticism is always nice. You don't have to be gushing like I always am in my reviews. But, I suppose feel free to anyway. ;) :D **

**Well, ENJOY!**

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_SHERLOOOCK! Nooo come bakkkk Sherlokk _

_John. Put. Down. That. Bottle._

_at bottle_

_Do you need me to come get you?_

_I dont hve a bottle~~_

_No, John, of course you don't._

_Seeee?_

_But John, put down that drink. Which pub are you at? I'll come and fetch you._

_y shold i tll youuu?_

_Because, John. You want to tell me._

_noo i dontt_

_Now, John, you don't want to become like your sister, do you? Think of poor Harry._

_...but im not gayyy _

_No, John, of course not._

_shirleyyyyy_

_I am not a female, John_

_i love u thoughhh _

_Of course, John. Now if you tell me which pub you're at, you can tell me in person, and prove that you love me._

_i'm at the black horsee inn shirleyy_

_Okay, John. I'll be there in a minute._

_John, where are you?_

_i'm in th pub shirley_

"John, there you are!" Sherlock exclaimed as he reached his friend. "Come on, we're leaving. Now," he continued as he grabbed his friend by the arm, and left a quid on the counter for John's latest drink.

John was dazed and confused, not sure how Sherlock found him, but then again, he was Sherlock. "Sher..?" He could barely speak, as his mind was worn from the drink.

Sherlock dragged his in coherent friend by the arm out of the car, and plunked himself and his flatmate into the cab he had wait for them. "221B Baker Street," he called to the cabby.

John flopped into the cab, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder as he sat, "Sherlock..." He murmured, tired and confused.

"It's okay, John," Sherlock began, slightly uncomfortable with his friend's bony head on his shoulder, but allowing him to stay, nonetheless, "as soon as we get home, you can go to bed."

"Sherlock..lov..you.." John's speech was slurred and muddled, making it hard to understand.

"I know, John. I know. Now sleep. I'll just... carry you into the flat. You need to sleep, before you throw up all over...," he assured his friend.

John murmured an incoherent response and dazed off into a peaceful, if not odd, sleep and dream.

As the cab pulled up to Baker Street, Sherlock pulled out his wallet, and paid the cabby, trying his hardest not to disturb his friend's drunken sleep as he lifted him up, and carried him inside.

John murmured softly as Sherlock picked him up and gripped to his coat, a feeling of falling overcoming him.

Sherlock stumbled into his room, and put John on Sherlock's own bed, simply because he did not want to carry the man all the way upstairs to his room.

Sherlock turned off the light, and after glancing back at John, shut the door slowly and silently, and went to read a book quietly so he would know if his friend got into any trouble.

John groaned and turned on his side. Though unconscious, he had an awful feeling in his stomach, most likely from the booze.

Sherlock selected a book by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and sat in his chair to read.

John held his torso, a nauseous feeling overcoming him, and he groaned Sherlock's name in a cry for help.

As Sherlock heard his friend call his name in a panic, he immediately threw his book to the side, and ran to his room.

John held his mouth closed, attempting to keep the bile down, though it burned his throat greatly.

"John!" Sherlock called, seeing his friend turned away from him, not knowing what was about to ensue.

John merely used his hand to motion Sherlock to his side, hoping he understood what he meant.

Sherlock's eyes widened, as he rushed to his friend's side, now actually aware of what was about to happen.

John made a motion for a trash can, or a bag, conscious of the horrid burning in his throat and mouth.

Sherlock looked around frantically for something to grab for John, but it was too late.

John was practically choking on the bile, and finally opened his mouth, a feel of disgust washing over him.

Sherlock stepped back as the vomit dripped off of his bed, himself, and John.

John murmured an apology, embarrassed and disgusted.

"It's alright, John. Come on, let's get you cleaned up," and Sherlock, for the second time that night, grabbed his friend by the arm, and then dragged him to the loo. He gingerly sat John beside the toilet, and began to carefully began to dab at John's face with a washcloth.

John sputtered an apology, coughing and nearly chocking on his discoloured vomit, "Sher.." He mumbled, unsure of what to say.

"Shhh...," Sherlock hushed him as he dabbed at his face a bit more, and began to unbutton his vomit-covered shirt, and remove it to put it in the wash.

John coughed into the bowl, acid stinging his throat and tongue. His forehead was hot, sweat stung his eyes.

He quickly and swiftly ran up to John's room, and grabbed a T-Shirt, a pair of pants, and a pair of trousers that John could sleep comfortably in. As he re-entered the lavatory, he quickly ran to John's side and helped him to get changed.

Sherlock grabbed John's hand, and helped him up. He finished pulling off John's shirt, and pulled the next one over the stumbling man's head.

Then, without a second thought, Sherlock unbuttoned John's jeans, and pulled them down along with his pants.

"Sherlock, you should ask me on a date first, you know," John said. Sherlock knew he wouldn't have said it were he sober, but rather he would have protested.

"Shhhhh," Sherlock said again, and put his index finger over John's soft, moist lips.

And just like that, John was in his pyjamas, and Sherlock was bringing him into the main room of the flat, and sitting him on the couch.

"Just wait here for a minute while I go change the sheets on my bed, okay? Do you need anything before I go?"

"Can I have a kiss?" John grinned, his words slurring.

Sherlock smiled at his flatmate's drunken request.

"Perhaps when I return," Sherlock answered as he turned to leave the room.

As quickly as he could, Sherlock ran to his room, and fiercely pulled the sheets off of his bed in one swift movement. He brought them to the laundry room, and grabbed fresh sheets. Once he finished putting them on the bed, he ran up to John's room, and retrieved his pillow, placing it next to his own on his bed.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said as he lifted John from the couch and practically dragged him to his room. "Sleep in my room tonight, okay John?"

"Are you asking me to sleep with you, Sherlock? It's all a bit fast isn't it?"

"No, John. But bringing you all the way upstairs to your room would just be boring," he said in an attempt to explain why he would be sleeping in Sherlock's bed to the drunken John. "Now you sleep. Okay?"

And John laid back, and fell sound asleep.

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**A/N Well, I hope you enjoyed it! Please review!**

**Keep Writing. XD**


	2. The Shamed

**_A/N_ Wow, okay! I did _NOT _expect it to have so many alerts after just one chapter! Thank you all so much! I'm so happy you're reading my story! I'm still in shock! I think perhaps I may need a blanket. . . .**

**Thanks to all who read, reviewed, faved, and followed! **

**Well, here you have it! Chapter two! The next morning. Well, this should be fun. *evil grin* **

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When John woke up, his first thought was that he was in Sherlock's bed.

His second thought was that he had a pounding headache, the light hurt his eyes- not too terribly but enough to make him shut his eyes tight for a moment after opening them- and he couldn't remember much of what happened last night.

His third thought was that he_ was in Sherlock's bed._

He was _in Sherlock's bed._ With a _pounding headache._ The _light hurt his eyes._ He _couldn't remember much of last night. _And then he noticed that _Sherlock's pillow was next to his own._

John sat bolt upright in the bed- which he immediately regretted, and then decided to get up slower than he had begun.

Slowly but surely, John made his way to the bathroom, and then found Sherlock sitting in his chair with his dressing gown on, his head flopped backward on the couch.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock responded without moving a muscle.

"Sherlock. . . . Sherlock, what happened last night?"

And now, Sherlock lifted his head, smirking which worried John quite a bit. And Sherlock could tell it worried John, so he decided to play with him for a while.

"Don't you remember, John, dear? We both went to the pub? You had a few drinks? We left together? I carried you inside bridal style, and brought you to my room?" he said, and none of it was really lying.

"Sherlock," John warned, "don't play games with me. Not now. I remember going to the pub. I remember having. . . _a few _drinks. I remember you _not_ being there. Now. _What. Happened. Last. Night,_" he demanded.

Grinning, Sherlock responded, "You went out to the pub, and had _quite_ a few drinks. You ended up getting drunk and texting me," and at this John's eyes widened. "Don't bother looking for your phone- I've got it in safe keeping, and I've already deleted the messages from both of our phones. You might want to have a glass of water or tea to help that headache," and he got up from his seat, grabbed his violin, and plopped back down. Before beginning to play his violin, though, he swished John away with his bow.

So, John complied, and went to the kitchen, knowing there was no arguing with Sherlock. Especially when he was this tired and had this bad a headache.

John walked over to the kettle, and checked for chemicals and body parts before quickly washing out any chemicals or chemical residue that may have been left by an ignorant Sherlock. He had just poured the water in and turned the kettle on when he realised something, and spilled a bit to the side of the kettle as he snapped his head up (much to Sherlock's amusement).

"Sherlock. . . If you brought me straight to your bed where I fell asleep. . . how did I get into my pyjamas?" he asked, dreading the response.

"Well, you sort of. . . threw up. So I had to change my sheets, clean you off, and change you into your pyjamas. You were being rather humorous throughout it," Sherlock answered oddly casually.

"_Sherlock!_ I'm not a little boy! You can't just change me into my pyjamas and change my sheets for me!"

"Well, you were drunk and disoriented. You were practically acting like a little boy. You weren't going to do it yourself, so who would? And Mrs. Hudson is our landlady, not our housekeeper. Or mother, for that matter."

"Sherlock, you don't just change someone's clothes for them! I am a fully grown man! I think I can manage on my own, thank you!"

"Well, would you rather have slept in your own vomit! I don't know about you, but I don't want my bed smelling like that for weeks until Mrs. Hudson finally manages to get it out of the mattress!"

"I thought she was our landlady, not our housekeeper, Sherlock! Though what would you know about that!"

John needed to stop yelling. He needed Sherlock to stop yelling. His head was killing him. He was getting more ticked off than he should have been. But he had to get _something_ through that man's thick skull. As brilliant as he was, he really was such an idiot sometimes.

"Look, Sherlock," John began, calmer this time, as he pinched the bridge of his nose, "even if I was drunk, I'm pretty sure I could have handled it myself. Okay, you could have gotten the sheets since it's your bed, but really, Sherlock. And I'm sure you didn't have to _carry_ me."

"You were falling asleep on top of me, and very, very, _very_ drunk. I really _did_ have to carry you. And since you were that tired and drunk, I really _did_ have to take care of you like that," Sherlock said, calming down as well.

"I was. . . falling asleep on you?"

"You were also attempting intimacy. Or asking for it, anyway."

John blushed the brightest shade of pink Sherlock had ever seen. And Sherlock, being, well, _Sherlock_, had seen many people blushing out of embarrassment. But not as much as John was at this moment.

"Sherlock. . . ," John began slowly, "what. . . _exactly_. . . happened last night?"

Sherlock sighed before responding. "I already told you, you went to the pub, got drunk, I went to retrieve you, we went home in a cab together, I carried you inside, you vomited, I cleaned you up, and put you back in your bed. Do I really need to elaborate more than that?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes. Yes, you do."

"Fine, then. What would you like me to elaborate on?"

"How about our conversation for starters?"

"You were drunk, John. There wasn't much conversation to be had."

"Well what did drunk me say, Sherlock?"

"What did drunk you say when?"

"How about that whole. . . attempting intimacy you talked about?"

"All right, then. Well, let's see. . . . Well, during our text conversation, you said something along the lines of 'I love you Shirley,' which helped me to convince you to tell me where you were, so you could tell me in person. Then, in the cab, you rested your head on my shoulder- much to my dismay- and again said that you loved me. When I was getting you changed, you said that I should have asked you on a date before undressing you. When I left to change the sheets, you asked for a kiss, and when I put you back into my bed, you asked if I was asking you to sleep with you. There. Is that good enough for you, John?"

But John couldn't respond. He was too busy wishing himself away, wishing that last night never happened.

"Oh, god. . . ," John whispered to himself. "Erm. . . . Sherlock. . . . You do realise that. . . I was very drunk, and. . . . And whatever I said. . . I. . . . I mean. . . . I didn't really-"

"Relax, John, do you really think that I would take a drunken man's word, and fulfil requests as ridiculous as those? Really, don't you have any faith in me?"

"No. . . . No, right. . . ."

And John sighed, and decided to go back to bed- his _own _bed, completely forgetting about the tea he was making.

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**_A/N _Well, I hope you enjoyed it! And please don't forget to review! Please, please, please review! They give me more motivation to write, therefore posting new chapters sooner, *hint hint* *nudge nudge* *wink wink!***

**Keep Writing. XD**


	3. The Confused

**A/N I am a despicable human being. I am the worst person on the planet. I am horrible. I am absolutely awful. I hate myself.**

**I promised you all fast updates, and now it's been almost two months with none. I'm SO SO SORRY GUYS! ;A;**

**Please don't hate me? **

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"John, come on! We have to go!" Sherlock shouted at his flatmate through the closed door of his bedroom. "John, we've got a case, let's go! I even made you toast, John!"

"No, Sherlock, just go away! Please!" a muffled shout came back at him. "Look, Sherlock, I'm not feeling well, just leave me alone! Not _now!_"

"But I made you tea and toast, John! Now come on!"

"Sherlock, not now! I don't want to have you having me run around all over the city while you stay at home, especially when I've got a hangover!"

"But John, I would come with you this time! This one is at least an eight and one half! Please, John? Please?"

John sighed before responding. "Sherlock, do we have to do this now? I don't want to go, okay? Can't we just leave it at that?"

"John! Come _ON!"_

"Sherlock, stop it! My head is killing me. I can't take this. I can't go out feeling like this. Not. Now. Sherlock. Understand?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to sigh. He put his phone in his pocket, and opened the door to John's room slowly and quietly. He took a single step so he was half in John's room, and half still in the hallway, and not letting go of the doorknob.

"John," Sherlock began quietly and gently now, "will you please come to the case with me? Lestrade needs help, and if you don't come, I'll have to work with Anderson," he was getting faster and louder again now, "and he's going to be an annoying idiot the whole time, with his stupid ideas and incorrect assumptions which he came up with in seconds at an attempt to seem as smart as I am-"

"Sherlock-"

But Sherlock continued over John, not hearing him, "probably so he could impress Lestrade or at least make it seem like I wasn't as smart-"

"Sherlock, my head hurts-"

"But really, I don't even know if that's possible, because I mean, he's only Anderson and could there really be anyone as smart as me, possibly besides my brother and perhaps Moriarty, although maybe that Doctor bloke from that television show you enjoy so much and-"

"SHERLOCK!" John finally yelled just to get the man to shut up, although he rather regretted it as his head began pounding. "If I go, will you promise to shut up? Please?"

And Sherlock flashed John the widest smile as he got up, and promised John he wouldn't be quite himself, for John's sake. "Now, I believe you're going to need to get dressed before we depart, John."

"All right, well you shoo, then," and Sherlock left at his friend's command. "So what's this case all about anyway?" John asked through the shut door as he rifled through his drawers for some halfway decent clothes to wear.

"Don't know much, Lestrade said it was a serial killer, all of the victims were found in places in their normal routine, with an 'X' scraped into their chest by a knife, which the forensics people are now attempting to identify now. Although they'll most likely get something about it wrong, especially since Anderson is there. They can't find any connection between the victims, and after interviewing some of the relatives, they had virtually no enemies, at least none that would be willing to kill them, and certainly no common enemies."

John pulled on his Beatles T-Shirt, and grabbed the cleanest pair of jeans he saw in the room.

"Okay. . . . Well, let's go, I suppose," and Sherlock backed away from John's door just as it was opened, very nearly avoiding a smack in the nose with a door, and a very awkward situation. "Where is it, anyway?"

"No idea, waiting for an address from Lestrade. He should text it to-" Sherlock was cut off by the sound of his text tone, and waved it to John, signalling he had gotten it.

"Well then, allons-y!"

"No, John. No."

"What?"

"Don't. You're not The Doctor, John. Just . . . just don't."

"Well, neither are you!"

"What?"

"The Tenth Doctor said 'Don't. . . just. . . . Just don't," to almost all of his companions."

"Really, John, like I would know that. I don't waste my time watching silly shows about impossible time-travellers."

"Whatever, let's just go, shall we?" John rolled his eyes, and headed through the door, Sherlock right behind him.

Sherlock hailed a cab, and held open the door for John. Then he hopped in after his flatmate, and fed the address to the cabby.

The ride to the scene was silent, as usual. But it was still strange. To John, at least. Sherlock always got into the cab first. But he didn't this time. And Sherlock always sat with a seat between John and himself. But he didn't this time. And Sherlock was never ever nervous, ever. But he was now. Even John could tell. And John could almost never positively tell something about Sherlock as he could now.

"Sherlock? Are. . . . Are you okay?" he asked tentatively.

"Fine," Sherlock responded quickly with a wave of his hand in John's direction, but still not looking at him, just staring out of the window.

"Come on, Sherlock. You're acting odd today. Just tell me."

"Nothing's wrong with me, John! I'm fine! Leave me alone!" Sherlock burst out suddenly, his eyes shutting tight, his hands flaring up in front of his face.

"Fine, then," John sighed, and simply stared out of the window.

And although his mouth was silent, his mind was racing. Why was Sherlock acting like this? Had he done something? Said something? Did it have to do with his drunken antics last night? Did he do something then to make Sherlock upset? What had happened!

As John's mind raced, Sherlock was trying to keep his own mind off of the very thing perplexing his flatmate. Usually, the man wanted- _needed_- to think everything through agonizingly thoroughly. He needed to make sure every last detail was right- he could _never_ be wrong about anything, even the smallest detail. It of course did happen on occasion, but merely small details that were of next to no significance, and certainly would not matter in the long run.

So, Sherlock tried to concentrate on something else. Perhaps he could think about the crime, maybe even think up a few solutions before they arrived.

So, as the two sat in the cab, they both thought very hard as and rode the rest of the way in silence.

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**A/N So, what'd you think? The next one should go up within the next week, I PROMISE! AND THIS TIME I MEAN IT! I WON'T WAIT TWO MONTHS THIS TIME! I SWEAR ON JOHNLOCK! **

**Anyway, please R&R!**

Keep Writing. XD


	4. The Idiots

**A/N: The Idiots, because Sherlock is involved. Need I say more? **

**Oh my gosh, my lovely, lovely, amazingly, fantastically, brilliantly awesome followers, I'm so sorry this took so long! I just had a severe case of writer's block, and then, of course, they day my writer's block is lifted, I was bombarded with homework for about two weeks. But finally! IT HAS ARRIVED! THE (NOT-SO-)MUCH ANTICIPATED CHAPTER FOUR! I promise that I'll _try_ to have the next chapter up soon, since I already know how it will start, as well as key components for upcoming chapters, but with school started again and everything, I can't tell exactly when. **

**Anyway! Enough of my babbling! Please enjoy the chapter and please, please review!**

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"Idiots."

DI Lestrade and John sighed as Sherlock turned around. His first, and so far only, word since he had arrived had been "Idiots," which he said as soon as he saw the body.

"How are you so sure already? You've hardly even been here for a whole minute!" Anderson complained. "You can't be sure yet, not even you, '_The Great Sherlock Holmes_'!"

So Sherlock went right up to him, leaned down (very much invading his personal space- their noses were almost touching) and said, "You're all complete and utter idiots," and turned and headed back to the body.

"Fine then, if you wouldn't mind explaining to us _idiots_ why-" Anderson began, but was cut off by Sherlock.

"That's not an 'X', you fools, it's the Christian cross!" he shouted as he pulled up a picture on his mobile. "The kind of person you're looking for is a very religious type, probably thinks he's carrying out his god's word killing those who he thinks have sinned greatly. Give me a few more minutes with the scene, and I can tell you even more."

And whenever he wasn't looking at his mobile (which he wasn't as soon as he showed around the picture), he was staring a rather upset looking Anderson straight in the eye.

Anderson then tore off his gloves angrily, and left the room, leaving Sherlock to his deductions.

And that was exactly what Sherlock did. He kept on with his deductions.

As Sherlock went on, John busied himself examining the room to see if he could find any evidence of some sort that the forensics team would be bound to miss (especially if Anderson was on forensics).

The crime scene itself was a rather small flat.

The door to the flat had a hallway directly in front of it, and stretched out slightly farther than the walls of the hallway on either side with a single door on each side.

The door to the left of the main door led to a normal sized loo with a shower and tub. The door to the right had a small bedroom, decorated for a small boy, around the age of nine or ten.

In the hallway, the set of doors on the left led to the master bedroom and a bedroom for a teenage girl beside it. It was filled with posters of bands like One Direction (which John scoffed at) and yet also people like Olympic diver, Tom Daley (which John smirked at).

On the adjacent side of the hall, the doors led to a general living area with a navy blue and white carpet and a moss green sofa. Directly in front of the couch and right next to a window, there was a television set on a small table with several devices beneath it. There was another door leading to the kitchen and dining area. There was a small stove and oven, and on the counter beside it was a small microwave oven, and next to that there was a toaster oven. There were some small cupboards both above and below the countertop, and a few drawers. There was a small, rectangular wooden table, much like John and Sherlock's own table, only slightly smaller.

The body itself was on a table at the very end of the hallway, laid out on a table completely void of any other objects. Its legs from the knees down were dangling off the longer edge of the table. The body was completely naked except for a pair of plain white pants and, strangely, a pair of socks. Beside On the far left of the room was a dresser with pictures and small objects on top of it, which stood next to a small closet filled with old baby clothes, ugly Christmas jumpers (that John would probably wear anyway), and other things that would either never or rarely be used again.

To the far right of the room lay a desk with a few items that seemed to be for someone's work. There was a small table across from the desk with some drawers, and a few simple things on it, such as a hairbrush, a picture, and a small mirror. The bottom drawer was slightly ajar, and John took out a pair of latex gloves which he now always had on him now, never knowing when he would need to run out last minute for a case with Sherlock. He snapped on the gloves, and opened the drawer, finding an old picture of what appeared to be the victim and his husband kissing on their wedding day. He looked at the top of the table, and noticed that the picture was, in fact, a newer picture of the two men.

John put the picture back in the drawer and, content with his observations (which he knew were not nearly as brilliant as Sherlock's deductions, but could still be helpful), went back to where Sherlock was finishing up observing the body.

"Okay, so?" asked Lestrade as Sherlock stood upright, obviously finished.

Sherlock smirked in response, and began spewing his deductions, nearly faster than John and Lestrade could keep up with, and most certainly faster than Anderson could.

"He has two adopted children, who are currently with his partner, whom he's divorcing. He's just returned from a trip to America, where he was for approximately one week- but he wasn't there for business. He was under quite a bit of stress not only from his divorce, but also from his work; he most likely had some sort of job in the computer engineering field. My guess is that the killer is, as I said before a religious vigilant, probably on the verge of insanity, if not already there. He doesn't know the victims, but once he discovers their 'great sins,' he'll stalk them until he finds a time within their daily routine in which they are alone, and possibly the time during which he may consider them to sin the most."

"How can you be so sure of all that?" Anderson sneered.

But before Sherlock could respond, John was on Sherlock's defence. "Come on, even _I _knew most of that, after just looking around the scene for a few minutes! How could you not? How Sherlock got that all off of the victim is beyond me, but if you had bothered to look right under your own nose, you would have been able to figure some of it out for yourself!"

Everyone in the room fell silent as most of them stared at the seething Doctor, some of them, however, not daring to look up. Sherlock and Lestrade were staring at John with similar expressions of shock and amazement. As were several others. But none more so, however, than those two. Anderson was staring mostly at John, but also glancing at others in the room with a facial expression of shock, anger, and embarrassment all together. Sally was eyeing John angrily, while also giving Anderson sympathetic looks.

John himself, however, was completely unfazed by all of the looks he and others were getting, simply staring down Anderson in a rage as he stood there, right in the middle of the room, not embarrassed in the least.

After a few minutes of silence, it was Sherlock, of course, who broke it. Although, since it had before been buzzing with conversations before with everyone discussing what they saw and were discovering, it was more like he threw it on the ground and shattered it.

He smirked and said, "Thank you, John, for proving my point," while looking at straight at Anderson. Almost everyone in the room jumped in response to the sudden noise. He turned to look at John again for a brief moment with a large smile on his face, and then looked around the room, stating a few more deductions, bringing the room back to its regular buzz of conversation. Although now, it was much quieter than before.

While everyone else was quieted down, Sherlock, on the opposite hand, took the opportunity to be louder than previous. Perhaps it was just because he thought it was too quiet. Maybe because he just wanted all of the attention. Or maybe, the more plausible, just to smite Anderson.

Once Anderson finished what he had been doing (which, honestly, wasn't much at all), he stormed out of the room they had been in, and went "to investigate the other rooms" a bit. Although, for some reason, the only thing John could see in his mind's eye was that of an upset little boy leaving the room to go pout and cry by himself. Which amused him much more than it should have.

Finally, Sherlock finished explaining to Lestrade all of his deductions, and, upon completion, grabbed John by the wrist, and dragged him out to hail a cab and head home. The cab ride was silent, until they were about five minutes away from their flat.

"Why?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

Obviously confused, John replied, "What?"

"Why did you yell at Anderson? Countless times he's made a complete fool of himself and criticised me. Yet you never spoke up against him until today. Why?" he said, as though John were an idiot. Which wasn't completely wrong, since Sherlock thought just about everyone was an idiot besides himself.

John was silent for a few moments before he answered. "I. . . I don't know, Sherlock. . . ."

And although he didn't realise it, John Watson was blushing.

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**So. Please review and let me know what you thought? Oh, and feel free to share any ideas for the story you might have! Just small little things, you know? I would love to hear from you!**

**Oh, and by the way, it's my parents' 22nd wedding anniversary today, so wish them a happy anniversary maybe? :D**


	5. The Thoughtful

**A/N: Well, if I'm not mistaken, this has been either my quickest or my second quickest update yet! I wish I could have updated sooner, but I had loads of school work to do. Just a little bit of angst in this chapter, and hints at my head-canon background for Sherlock. :D This one, to me, isn't really as good as the others, but I really hope you enjoy it! **

**Enjoy reading. :)**

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John sat quietly in his chair typing away at his laptop, as Sherlock paced around the flat wildly, playing his violin for a minute now and again as he did so. It had been like this for a while now- John idly passing the time on his laptop while thinking about the case, and Sherlock pacing thinking about it.

Sighing, John shut his laptop, placed it on the table beside him, and looked up at Sherlock as he wandered around, waiting for Sherlock to say something. After a while, Sherlock finally saw John staring at him, and stopped abruptly in his tracks.

"What?"

"Look, Sherlock," John started, "I know something's wrong. You're _never_ like this. Not on a case that seems to be as easy as this one. Just tell me what's wrong, Sherlock."

And Sherlock began walking again- and although he might have been imagining it, John could swear it was just a little bit faster than before. "Don't be ridiculous, John. That's foolish."

"You may not think so, but I'm not an idiot, Sherlock. And you have rubbed off on me a bit. I know something's bothering you. _Tell me_, Sherlock."

"Please, John. Don't flatter yourself. Really, though. Whoever told you you're not an idiot must have been a complete fool, as well."

John let Sherlock walk around for another minute or so, before he got out of his chair. When Sherlock wandered out of the room, John rose from his seat, and went to stand in the doorway.

As Sherlock approached John, he was too busy looking at his violin to notice John, until they were inches apart. Sherlock nearly jumped when he saw John, which John didn't miss.

"Sherlock," he said more sternly. "What are you going to do? You're going to run off and be an idiot again, aren't you_? _You are, _aren't you!?_"When Sherlock didn't respond, and just put lowered his violin while attempting to stare down John.

"Sherlock, you _can't_ keep doing things like this! Tell me what you're going to do, Sherlock!"

"What does it matter, John? You know I'm going to do it, and you know you can't stop me. What's the point in even trying, John?

"Dammit, Sherlock! I swear, one of these days, you're going to go and get yourself hurt," he said jabbing a finger at the taller man, "and I won't be there to help you! What will be of you then, _GENIUS?_ For a man as clever as you, you're an absolute fool! If you think you can just go running about London like a madman, you're _WRONG,_ Sherlock! You're not the only one that cares about you anymore for god's sake! There are people in your life now! People that care about you! What about Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? Molly? What about your family, Sherlock? What about _me?_"

Sherlock looked John up and down before responding. Deducing countless things about him, no doubt. "Since when do _you_ care so much, John? Since when does what I do to solve cases concern you so much-"

"Since the day I met you, Sherlock. Since the day I came in this flat, and we ran off on our first case together, and came back breathless and cane-less. Since you knew I'd take the flat. Since we spent all that time together, solving cases and running around like madmen. Since, Sherlock, it doesn't even matter when!"

"It doesn't matter since when, John, because it doesn't matter now. You can't treat me like a child! I am a thirty-four year old man, and I know how to take care of myself, thank you very much."

And at that, John shook his head, grabbed his coat, and ran out the door. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Hudson stepped out of the door, and looked at him with concerned eyes. He looked at her, shook his head, and left. Once the door shut, Mrs. Hudson retreated again, and sighed as she thought of her boys.

Meanwhile, back upstairs, Sherlock stared sadly at the door where John had left, but then continued his pacing and violin playing.

Mrs. Hudson went back to her baking downstairs, concerned about Sherlock and John.

And John just kept on walking, not really caring where he was going. Not for now, anyway. He just needed to walk. Let off some steam. Get rid of some of the stress. Because living with Sherlock, well, that sure gave one quite a bit of stress.

He just couldn't stand Sherlock and all that he entailed. He was so infuriating and insensitive, and arrogant, and hundreds of other things people had said of him, and not to mention hundreds more that were also true of him that had yet to be said.

And yet, John was so intrigued by him. He was like a small boy trapped in the body of a grown man, but with the mind of a super genius. He was, without a doubt, the smartest man John Watson had ever met- or would ever meet. He could know everything about a man and his past after mere seconds of one entering the room. Yet, some things so ordinary and usual to many completely perplexed the detective beyond belief. He could solve murders in what took trained detectives who had done to academies and universities to train weeks to solve in less than a day. However, simple things learned in younger years were new or forgotten tid-bits to him.

John nearly laughed as he walked, amazed at the man he had come to know. And the man that had turned ex-army doctor into. Something he never thought that he would ever be.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock paced and played more violently than before, thinking both about the case and what he was planning to do about it, but also about John and his odd behaviour just before. True, John had been correct when he had said that he had cared about Sherlock since their first case together- Sherlock had, of course, known that- and yet Sherlock was dumbfounded as to how John had been able to deduce that Sherlock was, in fact, planning on doing something along the lines of what John had implied. It was not unusual for Sherlock to walk around or pace when he was thinking, and he played the violin more often than he paced when thinking. He had been known to walk around while playing the violin before, too. He had intentionally tried not to place himself in any regular or noticeable patterns or give away any tells to his thoughts. Yet here he was, absolutely confounded at how John had, in fact, correctly been able to deduce something about Sherlock.

Sherlock had grown up being able to deduce things about people, just as Mycroft had. It had been necessary for them. True, they had been born smart, but one must want or need to learn to use all the intellect gifted to them. One could be born smart, but proceed to grow and use little of their brain capacity, pretending not to understand, or doing none of the necessary work and learning. But with the Holmes boys, they were forced not only to use all of their intellect, but expand it. Any behaviour otherwise would be unacceptable. The Holmes boys grew up training for their futures and their careers all their lives. Ever since they were young boys, it had been drilled into their heads that they would be great. They would be the most ingenious men ever to walk the earth. They would be important and very prominent figures.

Their entire lives. That was what they were trained for. It was drilled into their heads from day one. So how had John been able to do it on his own? He can't have been able to do it all along- Sherlock would have known. So Sherlock once again floated aimlessly around the flat rapidly, while rapidly playing his violin.

Back outside, John kept on walking, not even realising- nor really caring- where he was going. His thoughts remained on Sherlock the entire time he was out, keeping him focused for longer than he intended.

He thought about how it had been when he first started living together. He had been brilliant, and so amazing it was hard to imagine. He had never seen anyone like that before. There were shows and movies, of course, but those were fiction. John never thought anyone in real life could ever be that smart. Until, that is, he met Sherlock. It was thrilling, for the most part. He got to see things with Sherlock that he never would have seen or known before. He saw things from a completely different point of view. It was intoxicating. He couldn't believe some of the things he saw and learned. It was so incredible being with Sherlock, and each day John couldn't wait to see what new thing he'd learn today, or in what new and amazing way he'd see something.

From the start, of course, he knew Sherlock was arrogant and annoying, but he thought he could deal with it. He wanted to continue living with Sherlock, if only to be able to see these fantastic new things. But, he soon grew tired of Sherlock's complete lack of ability to act like the age he was when without a case- or occasionally even when with a case. Not to mention his lack of simple, proper etiquette. He had no manners, and claimed they were unnecessary and that he didn't need them. John couldn't even begin to comprehend what kind of household Sherlock had grown up in, especially if his older brother managed to be as clever as him, but managed to have proper etiquette, and not only that, but also managed to work his way up to the top of the food chain that is the British government.

When John finally stopped to realise that he'd been out for nearly an hour now and had no idea where he was, he sighed, and started on his way back. He thought about hailing a cab, but he figured he could get back within a half an hour if he walked faster than he had just been, which wouldn't be too hard to do, since he usually walks rather slowly when consumed by thoughts.

So, he ventured home, and took a deep breath as he put his hand on the knob and stepped into 221B Baker Street.

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**A/N: So, did you like it? Please, please, PLEASE review! I love all of the reviews I get! And feel free to give me some constructive criticism- it really does help. I promise to work on it more at school so I can update sooner- it helped with this chapter. :D **

**So, yeah. I hope you liked it, there will be more to come, don't worry, and reviews are my best friend, of which I am lacking at the moment, if you catch my drift! :D **


	6. The Curious

**A/N: Well, here you go. Sorry it took so long. But high school sucks. About half of this was actually written while on a bus today going from my school to NYC for about an hour and 45 minute ride with no one to sit next to. *sigh* Well, here. Enjoy. **

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Before trudging up the stairs to see Sherlock- who, if he hadn't blown up half the flat from an experiment, was probably still just playing his violin whilst walking about like nothing had even happened- John went in to see Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John said as he poked his head in the door.

"In here, Love," she replied gently, and John went in to find her sitting at the table, waiting for the biscuits to be done in the oven.

"Making some biscuits, I see?" John asked, trying (very badly) at avoiding the elephant in the room as he sat down across from her.

"Are you and Sherlock all right, dear? I heard you fighting earlier, and you've been out for a while, now," she said, completely ignoring the question John had asked since she knew the real purpose of his question, anyway.

There was a silence between the two, and then John sighed before responding.

"He's Sherlock," he began, looking at his hands, "what do you expect? He's marvellous, and brilliant, and absolutely amazing, but he's just so infuriating, he's so stubborn, and arrogant, and with a complete lack of manners. I mean, is anyone ever 'okay' when Sherlock is concerned? I swear, Mrs. Hudson," he said looking into her eyes now, "we must be mad for putting up with him, let alone living with him."

They both laughed at that, and John stood as he said, "I should go in and see him, though. Make sure he hasn't blown anything up or gotten himself killed. You haven't heard any loud bangs, have you?" he joked as he gave her a kiss on the head, and left.

He went up the stairs, and opened the door to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, staring at the door as if waiting for something. John closed the door and glanced back at it, looking to see if Sherlock had, in fact, just been studying something on the door. But he must not have been, because there was nothing there- just like before.

"Have you been sitting there the whole time, Sherlock? Have you been… waiting for me?"

"I found no error, John, in my behaviour, nor any altercations- although I did find a fluctuation within yours. Before, what you said about you caring about me, I knew that was true. Although that was true, however, it would appear as though the intensity of your care has escalated. Is this not true, John?"

John sighed, and made his way over to his own seat, opposite Sherlock.

"Let's put it this way, Sherlock. In terms I can only hope you'll be able to understand.

"When we first started out- when we first met, I was… _intrigued_ by you. You were different from everyone else I had ever met. You were the exception to every rule. You brought me on that case with you, and the adrenaline was thrilling, and you showed me I didn't need my cane anymore. When we started out, I was intrigued by you.

"But since then, since we've been living together, we've become more than flatmates, more than crime-solving partners- we've become friends. You said so yourself fat Dartmoor- you've only got one friend. Now I'm more than just intrigued by you- because now I know you. You're my friend, Sherlock, just as I am yours. Now I worry about you.

"That's why I care more about you now than I did then. Get it?"

Sherlock looked up at John, with no expression- like usual.

"Of course, John," Sherlock said, and then simply began to put his violin away, as though nothing had happened.

That was normal for Sherlock, of course, but even still, sometimes John couldn't help but wonder about the man.

John shook his head and got up out of his chair and hung up his coat. He wandered into the kitchen to look for something to eat. Looking in the cupboards, he found nothing, so reluctantly he made his way into the fridge, wondering what body part would be in there this time. Opening it, he found almost nothing.

There was some ham and some eggs in there. No milk. Of course. His eyes scanned the shelves, working their way down. On the second shelf was- noses. There were noses in the fridge.

Sighing, John went to close the door- when a jar of jam caught his eye. He picked the jar up grinning, but he wasn't grinning for long, as he saw there wasn't enough even to just have some toast with butter and jam.

"Sherlock, I'm gonna go out for a bite to eat," John said. He went to grab his coat and added, "Try not to get yourself killed while I'm out? It would make for an awful stench."

"Hrm," was all Sherlock said in response.

He sat down silently, and John put his coat on. His hand was on the doorknob, ready to leave, when Sherlock stopped him.

"Wait, John," he said, and got up and walked over to John.

"I'll go with you," he said as he put on his scarf and coat.

"You?" John asked incredulous. "You want to go out to dinner with me? When you could be here, contemplating your brand new case? Or doing… whatever it is you're doing with those noses?"

Coolly, Sherlock replied, "It's Friday, isn't it? I need to eat something today."

Sceptical, and yet willing to go along with it, John shrugged and hopped down the stairs, Sherlock following him.

"Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and I are gonna pop out for something to eat, we'll be back later," John called out to his landlady-not-housekeeper, "since there's nothing in the fridge but _noses_," he said, half-glaring at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you'd better take care of that. I'm not your housekeeper!" she responded.

"I need to identify the consistency and colour of mucus after death!" he defended himself.

"Yeah, well, keep those in there, and you may be determining how long it takes for a scientific genius to clean puke off of noses and out of a refrigerator," John said sarcastically, pulling open the door.

"My dear Watson, need I remind you that said 'scientific genius' has already determined how long it takes to 'clean puke off of' another man and his own bed?" Sherlock teased, grinning, and John just glared up at him as he attempted to hail a taxi.

The first four times he tried, he couldn't get one, so he turned to Sherlock and said, "You know what? How do you feel about walking?"

It was a bit chilly in the air, but neither really seemed to mind, so Sherlock shrugged, and off they went.

"Any place in particular you wish to go?" Sherlock asked.

"Not really. I was thinking maybe just Angelou's or something. That's not too far."

Sherlock nodded, and walked alongside his flatmate. He was to John's right, their elbows almost touching. John was looking down at his feet as he walked along. It wasn't too unusual for him- he had always done so as a child at school, mostly to avoid the wandering and judging eyes of other students. Only now it was to avoid the wandering and judging eyes of the other people of London walking about, but the eyes of his flatmate- who was at this point no doubt looking John up and down, deducing things about him.

But when he looked up at Sherlock, he saw that he wasn't deducing things about John at all. No, instead he was looking in front of him, occasionally glancing upward. John glanced up, too, and smiled. He looked back at Sherlock, who was oddly quiet. But John smiled, and the two of them walked on.

Sherlock may have still been mad at Sherlock, and he might still not know what he was up to, but he couldn't really stay angry at him for long. No matter how awful he could be. He was always mad at Sherlock, of course (who wouldn't be?), but there was a difference between being mad at him and being angry at him.

They walked on, and, in the awkward silence, John felt he should say something, but couldn't think of anything to say. What does one say when walking alongside none other than Sherlock Holmes? So he stayed silently by Sherlock's side, and occasionally glanced up at the other man.

Sherlock's mind was racing- as it always was, but sometimes it was more helpful than other times. He was thinking on some part, of course, about the case. He was also thinking about John. He still couldn't exactly make sense of his earlier behaviour, as all data he had previously collected from both John and other people on which he had experimented on proved that one's affections for someone (especially when that someone was Sherlock) did not warrant reactions as strong as John's had been. It also did not explain how John had been able to deduce about how john had been able to deduce about Sherlock something that, although easily, Sherlock would have been able to deduce. He just couldn't make sense of it.

Sherlock knew his mind should be on the case, but he couldn't help but think about John. There had been an inconsistency within his collected data. Had he been wrong? Sherlock was almost never wrong. How could he have been wrong about this?

He looked down at John. He was walking alongside Sherlock, also silent. Sherlock felt as though he ought to say something, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He was too deep in thought.

Sherlock noticed John looking up at the sky. Had he been, too? He wasn't sure. He had been too busy thinking. When he looked up, he noticed that the sun was beginning to set. As was such when winter was quickly approaching. Sherlock thought that John was probably thinking about how pretty the sky looked. But to Sherlock, it was just a sky. It could be neither pretty nor ugly to him. And yet some people could see everything in the sky. People who paid attention differently than Sherlock. Sherlock, of course, saw no sense in it. I didn't matter to his everyday life, nor did it matter to what he did.

Of course, had Sherlock been saying such to John, or had John heard any of what Sherlock had been thinking, he would of course feel the need to bring up the case of the fraudulent painting, in which the solution to the case had been information about the sky (specifically the super nova) which had previously been unknown to Sherlock.

But that was useless now. It was most likely the only case which Sherlock would need the information for, anyway. And besides, he had already deleted it.

The boys brought themselves out of their thoughts as they neared Angelou's. Sherlock stepped forward first, and John figured he was just being himself, and entering first.

But instead, Sherlock help open the door for John. He gave Sherlock a confused look, but ducked under Sherlock's arm and entered regardless. Sherlock let the door shut behind him, and grinned as he sat down beside John.

It was time for Sherlock Holmes to conduct some experiments.

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**A/N: That awkward moment when Sherlock and John are walking for half a chapter. Just keep walking, just keep walking, just keep walking walking walking! Ehem. Well. Anyway. Please review, and tell me what you think.**

**-Keep Writing. XD (Or walking. Whatever works!)**


	7. The Diners

**A/N: Just so you know, I would have updated this about a week and a half ago, but I got to the last three lines, and suddenly, BOOM! WRITERS' BLOCK! Yay me. I seriously couldn't even think of a title for the chapter. So this is what I came up with.**

So, I was aiming for slightly OOC Sherlock, but I think it was too much. What do you guys think? Either way, please enjoy!

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"Sherlock!" Angelou shouted joyfully as always, slapping him on the shoulder.

Sherlock forced a smile on his face and replied, "You don't have to do that every time, Angelou."

"Ah, but why not, eh? Come on, you and your date, anything you want is on the house, quick as I can get it out!" he said, and slapped a pair of menus on the table.

"I'm not his-" John began in protest, but was cut off by Sherlock.

"Thank you, Angelou," and he smiled and nodded, and Angelou turned and left.

John looked at Sherlock suspiciously, but Sherlock was already hiding behind his menu, so John did the same.

There were quite a few interesting and appetising sounding items on the menu, but none out of the ordinary- burgers, pastas, sandwiches and the likes. John decided on a coke and an interesting combination of pasta, sauces, chicken, and spices, while Sherlock chose different pasta with an orange soda for a drink.

Angelou came around and took their orders, smiling as he left.

"Why are you doing this, Sherlock?" John gave up.

"Doing what?" Sherlock asked in response.

"Geniuses are surprisingly bad at playing stupid, Sherlock. Come on. Why are you doing this? Going out to dinner, actually acting nice to people?"

"Why not, John? Is this not what you _normal_ people do?"

"Yes, Sherlock, it is, but it's not what _you_ do."

"Well, perhaps I should take an attempt at it."

"Perhaps. But as if you would want to."

"Oh? and why is that, John?"

"Because you're Sherlock. It's not who you are. You're the genius without a conscious. The mastermind without a heart."

"Contrary to prior and popular belief, John, I am not as heartless as one might think," Sherlock said and leaned in closer to John, "just don't tell Moriarty."

And the pair couldn't help but laugh as Angelou brought their meals around to them.

"Thank you, Angelou," Sherlock said, grinning up at the man, and grabbing his fork, ready to dig in.

So, they boys began eating their meals, and John (as usual) was the one to break the silence.

"So, besides you planning on doing something stupid, how's the case going?" he asked, looking at Sherlock through a mouthful of (surprisingly good) food.

"Good," was all Sherlock said in response, without looking up as he scooped another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

"What, that's it? No new developments, no ideas, no clever things you did or figured out, no hints about your plan?"

"No."

"Course not. You know, Sherlo-"

"You really ought to phone your sister," Sherlock cut him off, still not looking up.

"Yeah, shut up. And don't try and change the subject."

"That was not an attempt at changing the subject, John, it was merely a deduction."

"Deduction or not, you were avoiding my question."

"No why on Earth would you say that, my dear Doctor Watson?" and this time, Sherlock looked John right in the eye as he spoke, and he had a large smile on his face as he did so.

"Because, my dear detective," John began, imitating Sherlock's speech and smile," even though you may be a genius, you're still very much socially inept, and I am not."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John playfully, his smile making him look almost devilish. He turned to his plate, dipped his toast in his sauce, and faster than anyone could have anticipated or barely even see, he shoved it into John's face, smearing it all over his mouth.

"Well, that does it!" John said and took his own sauce-covered toast, and shoved it into Sherlock's mouth.

The two collapsed into laughter, and tried their hardest not to choke on each other's toast while doing so.

"You like a vampire who's just had a feast," Sherlock said, referring to the red sauce around his mouth.

"And you look like a vampire deprived of one," referring to the white sauce around Sherlock's.

Sherlock suddenly, still grinning, leaned in closer and closer to John. John was momentarily frozen in place as Sherlock came nearer and nearer. Sherlock leaned in, and came right up to John's ear.

"I bet you didn't predict or deduce that one, clever," Sherlock whispered, leaving John to recover.

And almost as though nothing had happened, Sherlock pulled away, grinning rather slyly, grabbed a napkin, and wiped off his face. And all the while, John couldn't help but stare.

"You might want to wipe your own face, John," Sherlock said, as John was even still staring, dumbfounded.

John went for his own napkin, but was stopped when Sherlock instead got it first, and began to wipe John's mouth clean.

"Is this going to become a tradition now?" Sherlock asked as he dabbed the last bit away.

"Pardon!?" John said quickly out of confusion and embarrassment, and got the feeling as though he was missing something.

"Well, we did this just last night. Me, wiping your mouth clean. Is this going to become a nightly thing?"

"Last ni-" John began to ask.

"Yes, remember? You came home drunk and you managed to get sick all over my bed and yourself, and you, drunk and delirious, left me to clean both up."

"Do you have to say it like that, Sherlock!?" John said, blushing a deep shade of pink. "In fact, do you have to say it at all? No, I don't believe you do!"

"Oh, but I do, John," and Sherlock smiled, casually picked his toast off of John's plate, and began eating again.

"Sherlock Holmes, I will never understand you," John replied, shaking his head, although grinning, and began eating his own dinner as well.

"And what would the fun in understanding be, anyway, Doctor? I can tell you from personal experience that it is not all that people chalk it up to be."

"Is that so? Then why is it so important for you to know everything that is 'important'?"

"There is a difference, John, between knowing and understanding."

"Of course."

They ate in silence for a while more, until both of them had finished. They thanked Angelou and, despite his efforts, left him a decent tip.

Sherlock, of course, had somehow managed to barely touch his meal, so they packed it, no doubt for John to eat anyway, as Sherlock wouldn't eat it until after it went bad. When John asked why Sherlock had barely eaten anything, all Sherlock responded with was, "Remember John? Digestion slows down my thinking. And we've got a case."

John just sighed in response, but went along with it anyway.

By the time they left, it was dark out, and they both took a minute to stare at the night sky. Sherlock looked down at John, and couldn't help but smile as he saw how mesmerised his friend was.

"Come on, John," Sherlock surprised John a little when he spoke, and then even more when he took John's hand and began walking ahead of him.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked as he caught up with Sherlock and managed to get his hand out of his grasp

"Walking. Isn't it obvious?"

"Yeah. Right," John murmured, deciding it was best just to leave his friend alone in his thoughts. What was the worst that could happen?

Well. . . maybe he it wasn't best to say that when Sherlock Holmes was involved.

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**A/N: Well, there you have it. Chapter 7. Don't forget to review, and let me know what you thought!**

**Oh, and I just posted another Sherlock fic. It only has the prologue right now, but I'm working on it. You should go check it out! :D And don't worry, I won't abandon you guys and forget about this story! :)**

**Keep Writing. XD**


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